Stitches
by MooseOnARoof
Summary: Written using one of the prompts from Fifty Ways To Hurt Your Wilson table on LJ. He starts with a tie. The navy one with maroon stripes to be more precise, not because it has any significant meaning, but because it was the first one off the hanger.


_A/N- Written using one of the prompts from **Fifty Ways To Hurt Your Wilson** table on LJ. For the purposes of this fic, House and Wilson DO NOT live together_

_Disclaimer: Own them?? Don't be so bloody silly. I don't own them. _

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He starts with a tie. The navy one with maroon stripes to be more precise, not because it has any significant meaning, but because it was the first one off the hanger. The rest -- yellow ones, red ones, green ones, and the one with the obligatory cartoon character on -- were piled next to him on the bed. He remembers having a lot more than this; he remembers a time where he could go a whole month without wearing the same tie twice, but after moving three times and countless shifting of boxes into storage, those numbers were now depleted. These days he struggled to get through a couple of weeks without having to repeat himself.

Stitching needle in hand, he starts picking at the slivers of maroon worming their way through blue material. The first thread was proving difficult to gather, so it takes him several attempts before he finally catches hold of his starting point. He smiles with satisfaction as he coerces out the the first thread, leaving a darkened line across the tie where it had once sat.

Before he starts again, he takes a breath and rubs his eyes to focus himself. His concentration hadn't been all that great recently. The last thing he wanted to do was get this wrong and add to all the other things he'd been getting wrong. He doesn't want to give another excuse for Cuddy to extend his sabbatical. Six weeks was more than enough.

So he begins again, flicking the needle in, pulling the thread out. This one is a little more stubborn than the last, a couple of knots form in the slim maroon fibre as he's yanking it into the air, so he has to lick his fingers and and coerce the knots out with the deftest of touches. It works, after much lip licking and hand wiping another thread is free. He's surprised how quickly he is doing this; he thought it would have taken him most of the day just to do his ties, but now he's pretty sure he could get a start on some of shirts before lunch if he keeps going at this rate.

God, he hated being on sabbatical, feeling like a useless human being, sitting in the dark, not contributing, and he knew, he just knew, that everyone at work was talking about him. He could see the nurses in the staff room twittering and chuntering amongst themselves, making up conspiracy theories for his apparent incompetence, bringing up possible patient errors from aeons ago that make no significant impact on the current ones, discussing unfounded rumours about his wandering dick amongst the staff like that, somehow, had something to do with anything.

He'd been back to the hospital twice, begging Cuddy to let him back. Only last week he was in her office, practically grovelling on his knees for another chance, with curious nurses and doctors on clinic duty peering their nosy faces through the doors to see what the fuss was about. He had been onto a winner, Cuddy had been relenting, her face softening, her tone more soothing, but then she had asked that damn question and paired it with an unhelpful statement.

_"You seriously misdiagnosed three patients." "Are you sure you're ready to come back?"_

He remembers getting angry, that flush warmth in his neck and the stiff clenching of his jaw, but then everything gets fuzzy like on old TV losing its signal. He remembers the mutterings of the nurses, taken aback as he stalked through the clinic and out the exit, the stares and the whispers all focussing on him and whatever he had done. Cuddy hadn't called since then and he hadn't bothered to go back to the hospital, too ashamed and too confused to face all those people again.

He sighs in relief as finally he had something to be proud of. The navy tie had been conquered. He settles the tie onto the bedsheets, balls up the maroon threads and dumps them on top of the tie. He picks up the yellow tie next, the one with the white threaded pattern running through it, and begins his assault. This time he was a little more self assured. Although, that still didn't stop him pricking his finger on the first attempt, and drawing a drop of blood which dribbled and blotted through the yellow weave. No matter, he thinks, it's not that big of a deal anyway. He doesn't bother dabbing his finger with a tissue or to stem the bleeding because it doesn't matter. He has to get this done.

The yellow tie, now with a faint cloud of orange at the bottom, gets placed next to the blue one. The white thread is rolled up and dropped on top.

He goes through the green, red and second blue tie in quick succession, though the constant lulls in his concentration weren't helping.

His mind keeps drifting to far off places, old patients, new patients, his brother, his mom, why the shoes in the corner weren't shined, even though he wasn't going to use them any time soon, when he was going to get his next haircut, how he had somehow confused lymphoma with liver cancer. He comes to the conclusion that maybe he was never a good doctor, maybe he'd just been making a living off fifteen years of flukes and lucky diagnoses. He used to think the mortality rate in his department was to do with the types of cases he was given, many of his patients were terminal or asymptomatic, some transferred from other hospitals, but now he's not so sure. Maybe he's been incompetent the whole time, just nobody has really noticed.

His right index finger was now glowing red and the blood had begun to drip onto the bed linen. Unperturbed, he finishes the last of his ties, completing the row he'd set out on the other side of the bed.

Shirt now. He begins unbuttoning his checked shirt, top to bottom, and peels it off his back, separating the buttons from the cuffs as he is pulling his arms free.

The phone rings. It's probably House. In all honesty, it can only be House. Nobody else calls him any more. He lets the machine pick up the message. It's probably nothing of importance, just a courtesy call, and he knows he's fine. He's always fine.

Sure enough, a familiar, gruff voice makes its presence known, carving a path through the aching silence in the apartment. "_Wilson. Pick up the phone. I know you're there. Stop moping around Eeyore and pick up the phone. Pick up the phone. Pick up the phone. Pick up the phone. Pick up the phone. Am I not annoying you yet? Not even close?_" There was a brief pause. "_I'm coming over later. Get some soda. Now I have to run and stop some guy bleeding out of his ass."_ The machine beeped and he turns his attentions back to his shirt.

Or tries to. He can't stop thinking about that woman; her name worryingly slips his mind. He never forgets patient's names usually. He remembers her blonde hair, those fingers that were slightly too long in proportion to her palms, and her kid, a plump, brunette six year old with a screech that could break glass. He remembers saying you'll be fine when in fact she had six months. He remembers that kid screaming at him that he was a liar and punching him in the waist so hard he pissed blood for two days.

He's squeezing hard, the tail end of the shirt bunched in his fist, the material crinkling in his grip. Failure. Incompetent. Liar. He tries to concentrate. He tries to blink the tears away that are blurring his vision. Failure. Incompetent. Liar. But his hands are shaking and he can't focus himself so he flings the shirt to side, sticks the needle onto the night stand and presses his palms onto his eyes. Failure. Incompetent. Liar.

He's not crying. At least he doesn't feel like he is. There are no hitched breaths, or trembling shoulders, or scrunched facial features, but he can feel something damp and warm streaking through the sides of his hands and down the side of his face.

Taking deep breaths, he picks the shirt back up along with the needle and continues. There were only a few more red threads to remove before he could start on the trousers, then after that he'll be finished.

He was hoping House would be a while, that his patient was one of the those annoying liar types who hides a crucial pieces of information until they are pretty much at death's door, because then House wouldn't be able to burst in here and disturb him. But he's never that lucky.

The phone goes again. He leaves it to go to the machine again._ Holy mother of God Wilson will you pick up the damn phone? I'm gonna be about fifteen minutes. I know you're in so this evasion tactic isn't gonna work. Oh and the guy had a toy car up his rectum, hence the anal bleeding. Now go think about that, laugh about it because I can't deal with you being all boo hoo tonight. I'm gonna bring some porn cos you probably need it. See you later."_

Fifteen minutes. No problem. He eyes up the shirt, the last thread playfully dangling from the tail. He pulls it away and spreads the shirt across the bed, being cautious not knock any of the ties, before fumbling at the button on his trousers. Carefully, he drags the trousers from his legs and into his hands, folding the waist area so he could start on the hemline. He curses when he sees that his finger was still bleeding, still running, now trickling down his arm. But the trousers were black. It wouldn't show. It was of little consequence.  
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That little girl was back, kicking, screaming, flailing through the warm stuffy air as she is pulled back through the door. He's getting punched again, a firm right crashes beneath his ribs, causing him to bend in pain. Now she's crying, screeching loudly with all the power in her lungs_. He wishes he could make it go away, that wailing, cacophonous squeal that bleeds from his eardrums, but he can't. It's there now. And it was going to stay there.

The trousers were easy, despite all the noise, and he's pretty much finished by the time he hears the front door click.

"Wilson? I've bought some soda. The shop had run out of po-."

He hears House stop but doesn't bother to acknowledge his presence. The sodas drop to the floor with a soft thud.

"Wilson, what are you doing?" House steps out from the shadowy veil cast by the frame of the door, his eyes fixed on Wilson's bleeding hand before registering his lack of clothing.

He pulls the last stitch from his pair of dark trousers before turning to give an empty smile complete with a vacant stare. He doesn't notice the look of intense worry drawn all over House's face when he holds up the trousers, gestures to the clothes on the bed and states, matter-of-factly, "I'm unravelling."


End file.
